Mending Broken Souls
by bellatrixD
Summary: The lifelong quarrel over whether pain can be measured is questioned globally. It will not be answered here, simply explored. Five years after the Second Wizarding War and George Weasley has finally found himself in a phase of unfamiliar normalcy. Yet, he still hurts, still mourns. Another broken soul unravels, one that has a chance of being fixed. But the clock is ticking.
1. Five Years Later

**Do you know how hard it is to come up with a title? And chapters? Very. Short first chapter - think of it as an extended summary.**

**Disclaimer: All the original characters belong to the wonderful imagination of a certain JK Rowling. OC's and this plot are from me.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p><span>Mending Broken Souls: Five Years Later<span>

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><p>High pitched giggling and drunken slurs cut through the crisp night air as the entwined figures stumbled out of the excited pub and down the Alley, both with one destination in mind. Of course, if either were in their right mind they could have easily apparated there, but since they weren't, they held onto each other firmly, hands wandering where they would not dare to during the day in public view, and staggered to 93 Diagon Alley.<p>

Diagon Alley was a colourful wonderland during the day, with bustling shops bursting to the brim with customers; excited children running wild and free, their fretful parents never too far behind; music of laughter and playful bantering sparking the air with excited energy; stray animals scurrying through busy legs away from the messy hands of toddlers who could not hold their ice cream.

Yes, Diagon Alley was an impressive sight, even to wizards. The popular street hidden from muggle eyes was the heart of all social activity in the wizarding world. And why wouldn't it be? Old and new shops flourished after the war, built up from nothing and now reaching the high heavens. Street performers had even taken to entertaining curious eyes, evolving muggle circus clowns to a whole new level with their clever transfiguration and charms, and even advertising the latest from the famous joke shop.

And then there was the Diagon Alley few people witnessed.

When the sun bid farewell and the moon awoke the Alley was left with an eerie silence broken by pounding music blasting out of clubs. Diagon Alley was home to two new clubs, its neon lights flashing high and low and all around in the darkness, illuminating shadowed corners filled with masked figures away from the wandering eyes of patrolling aurors in Knockturn Alley. The odd disfigured beggar cackling to the moon, crouched on the floor mumbling incoherently and staring down anyone who dared to pass. Ugly, dismembered strays shrieking into spilling bins for scraps.

The nightlife was never consistent, however. Some days the ugly beggars and strays found shelter for the night; the shifty dealers drifted to Hogsmeade to avoid suspicious aurors; or the clubs had a quiet night on a weeknight and the music wasn't so loud or the lights so bright.

But the most common scene which repeated itself every night – or rather most nights…either way it occurred a lot – was the man stumbling out of The Leaky Cauldron, sometimes with a woman on his arm, sometimes without; sometimes even with another man dragging him through the streets to the safety of the famous Diagon Alley store, still thriving with one tanked owner. One. For the other had died tragically five years ago.

And George Weasley never recovered. Only coped.

To his credit, he had considerably sobered from the early days of his depression and mourning, no longer wasting away his days deep inside a strange woman or a bottle of the sharpest firewhiskey. His family supported him as much as was possible, bearing in mind they too had lost a brother, a son. But their faces betrayed their thoughts, and George couldn't deal with that. Where their faces leaked out the truth, George was suddenly brought back to the present, to what life was, how it changed and how it would never be again. And he couldn't have that.

So: distractions.

And that was how he'd spent many a night since the loss of his twin, his other half. Very rarely was he seen alone; he would arrive with a brother or two, he would spend the night brooding, drinking himself dull until he'd be so blinded he would gladly accept the company of the hungry stares that trained on him as soon as he stepped foot into the lively pub. If he were intoxicated enough, which many of the ladies made sure of, he would bed them at his flat. Always at his flat; that never left his mind. If this were to fail, a rough shove in his sour mood would send them away – far enough to give him some breathing space that was. These were the distractions that worked the most, he found.

But tonight her plan didn't fail. And she was well on her way to shag George Weasley.


	2. Wicked Amy

**This occurs five years after the Battle of Hogwarts so it is set in 2003.**

**Hope you enjoy**

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><p><span>Mending Broken Souls: Wicked Amy<span>

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><p>The coffee burned his mouth and down his throat, clutching his chest as he chugged it down, numb to the heat. The early morning sun was barely peeking above the buildings, but glowing enough to cast a shadow on the slumbering brunette. The blanket hugged her slight curves and revealed her bare back, glistening with the remaining sweat from only hours ago. With heavy feet, George Weasley grunted and shuffled out of his room, clad only in a thin t-shirt and trousers, and made his way down to his shop.<p>

It was far too early for the owls to post the newspapers, so George settled for draining his coffee at his workbench and pulled out his blueprints for new inventions despite his gnawing headache. From the corner of his eye he could see the bright bottle of hangover potion his brother no doubt left for him. With a deep sigh George grabbed it and walked through the door separating the backroom from the main floor. He unlocked the front door and shuffled to an alley off to the side, ignoring the cold air nipping at his exposed skin and the stones beneath his bare feet.

Knocked over bins and littered rubbish greeted him, and the resident stray pack of cats hissed and stretched in the shadows, some slowly stalking his way. With numb fingers George unscrewed the cap and spilled the contents onto the ground, relishing in the splashing on the concrete. He never drank the hangover potion left for him. His headache, although painful, was always welcome. It distracted him. And George Weasley treasured distractions.

The cats ran forward and sipped at the spilled potion, purring and humming in contentment. A small cat rubbed itself against George's leg and sat down on his feet, spreading warmth through him. The cat was grey with black stripes and had dull green eyes. He recognised it immediately. There were three other cats which looked almost identical, with only small differences in the patterns on their paws, faces and tails. This cat had one significant difference that could not be missed: it had three legs.

George only ever saw the cat from a distance. Regardless of its disability he did not feel in any way responsible for caring for it, never bothering to take a few minutes out of his day to feed it a little, rather, allowing the damn thing to scuffle for scraps in an act of survival of the fittest. He did not even like cats, his first real experience with one when his Aunt Muriel's fat snowy feline hissed and bit him when he took the last sausage at only three years old. His more memorable experience was when Crookshanks clawed him and left him a bloody mess in his fifth year. But he could not deny the sympathy that he felt for the cat. He could relate to it on some level; him missing an ear and it missing a leg, no doubt a casualty from the war.

The small cat purred and nuzzled his foot. George sniffed and shook his leg, ridding the cat. It squeaked _meow_ and looked up at him with its big eyes, its head tilted to one side and its ear twitching. Its right ear.

George scowled. "What?" he snapped, conscious of the mangled skin on the right side of his head. Merlin, he really hated cats.

The relatively new clock suspended in Diagon Alley chimed six times. George turned away and made his way back to the shop, cursing under his breath about stupid animals.

The Ministry owls soared high in the awakening pink glow of the sky. One swooped down before George and dropped a Daily Prophet by his feet before flying away. He picked it up and went straight to the backroom, pulling his magenta robe off the hook and wrapping it around himself. He placed the newspaper down on a tray, replacing it with the old paper that had generated a rather distinct smell of piss and dust, and set the pygmy puffs on it before returning to his blueprints covered in drawings and scribbles.

Ron pushed open the door to the backroom but halted it before it slammed into the wall behind it a while later. He sent a sheepish smile George's way before closing it gently.

"Mornin'," the youngest male Weasley greeted. His eyes fleetingly looked over to the hangover potion and saw it empty. "Got you some breakfast," he said, putting a bag on the workbench beside his brother and taking out smaller bags and boxes. "Didn't know what you felt like so I got a bit of…well everything."

George's eyes never left his parchment as his quill hurried over it. "'Kay," he muttered absentmindedly, vaguely taking in the smell of fresh pastries and coffee.

"What's that?" Ron asked, indicating to the parchment George was drawing on.

George scribbled once more and then threw the quill down, heaving out a breath and pushing it away to make room for the food. "New idea I got from Charlie over the weekend. This lemon?"

"Yup," Ron answered through a mouthful of pecan and maple syrup plait. "What's the idea?"

"Lava Lollies. Just started on it," George nodded, drinking the coffee out of the foam cup. "Melts when you lick your way to the middle and burns your mouth. Smokes as well, even comes out the orifices in your face. Thinking of other versions, too."

Ron nodded and the brothers ate their breakfast in silence. George checked the time on his watch, the new one from Percy just over four years ago, and saw that it was now ten forty-eight. The watch was far too large and expensive – something he and Fred would have spent hours talking about owning once upon a time. The only thing missing was the dancing veela inscribed in the middle.

"Verity's opened up shop already. Slow start," Ron informed him. He noticed the glance his older brother sent to the stairs that led to his flat. "Another one?" He asked, to which George winced and nodded curtly. "I've got this." He rubbed his hands free of crumbs and strode up the stairs purposefully, taking them two at a time. He returned moments later.

"Done already? That was quick," George commented, surprised. He had been expecting some sort of a scuffle; there was always one with Ron involved.

Ron gave a wry grin and shook his head, taking the seat opposite his brother. "No. She's singing in the shower. That new Weird Sisters song about Kneazles, and soul mates, and eternal love…or was it dancing pixies?" The desk _thumped _from the force of George's head and Ron licked the jam off his fingers and thumb. "Ginny should be here soon; she'll sort it out."

"Oh, thank Merlin," George breathed out, his head still resting on the table top.

A _pop_ resonated in the room just then, and, sure enough, Ginny Weasley appeared.

"Another one?" she asked in greeting, removing her cloak and hanging it up.

Ron muffled his laughter. Ginny rolled her eyes and strode up the stairs much the way Ron had done. The boys sat still and waited. A voice shrieked; glass shattered, and a loud _splash _sounded from the flat above. And then silence.

The young female Weasley smiled widely to her brothers as she skipped off the last few steps, pecked George on the cheek and stole the chocolate muffin from his hand, taking a large bite. The boys shared a glance, Ron's face quivering in amusement.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well, what?"

"She gone for good?"

Ginny giggled – always a sinister sound. "Oh yeah, definitely. Stupid bint dropped her towel the second she saw me. Must've thought I was you, George." George grimaced. "But she won't bother you again."

The occupants in the room knew exactly what that meant. Ginny's famous Bat Bogey hex was not to be contested, and you wouldn't want to be on the opposing end of her wand when she was in a temper – something all of her brothers had experienced at least once and wouldn't dare seduce again.

The three siblings sat in companionable silence eating brunch. Ron and Ginny would take a moment to engage in pleasantries to ask about their in-laws; the famous Boy Who Lived Twice, Harry Potter, (or dubbed by George as The Boy Who Just Won't Bloody Die), and the brightest witch of her age, Hermione Granger-Weasley, while George scribbled away on his Wheezes forms. The laughter and mini-explosions from the storefront occasionally entered when Verity opened the door to collect stock (the door was charmed against the noises so as not to disturb George when he was working).

Ginny didn't stay long, only leaving when she was sure her brother was alright. He was under no illusions – George knew the only reason one of his siblings visited everyday was to check up on him. But he was fine; had been fine for five years. Sure, the first few months after the…incident, were a nightmare – he was a dead man walking. When he was out of his room at The Burrow that was. He then moved to his flat; carefully avoiding Fred's room when he could help it.

But that was then. He was fine now. Fine.

"You coming over for dinner on Saturday?" Ron asked. The two had moved out to the storefront, George manning the counter while Ron restocked.

"Busy," George replied, handing over change to a customer and sending her off with a wink.

"What about Sunday? You look like you could do with some of mum's roast."

"No can do, large order to sort out for Halloween."

Ron scoffed. "You've been busy for the last few weeks, mate. And Halloween is ages away!"

"I want to get a start on it now – you know how much I hate late deadlines."

"Imagine you saying that back at school," Ron murmured, organising the last of the Whiz-bangs and then joining his brother behind the counter. "Look, everyone misses you. Just one dinner! It won't kill you."

George sighed deeply and ran a hand through his hair –long enough to cover the mesh of mangled flesh on the side of his head but shorter than it had been when he had been in his sixth year at Hogwarts. Not that he needed to conceal it anymore; there was only one Weasley twin now. No more confusion.

"Come on, mate. Vicky misses her funny uncle."

George winced, the pang in his heart evident for not having seen his niece in weeks – months even! He could never deny her anything, always spoiling her rotten whenever he could despite his mother's (and her mother's) protests. The little bouncing bundle of joy had kept George on his toes the minute he saw her in St Mungos Maternity Ward, when she gripped his thumb with swollen, tiny fingers and hugged it close as she slept. He was taken with her instantly, and from that moment a magical connection was born.

"Ok, fine. I'll go," Ron grinned. "But no guarantees I'll stay long!" George knew that wasn't true; he would stay as long as little Victoire would ask him to – unless he was driven insanely mad beforehand. Well, he had four days to dwell on anything and everything that could, and most probably would, go wrong.

The conversation moved on swiftly after that, then stopped altogether in the afternoon rush as the brothers and Verity were swamped with overexcited kids and fretting parents. The shop was so busy that George worked through his lunch break, but forced Ron and Verity to get their energy up.

By the end of the day George was ready to crawl up to his flat and lay about with a bottle of his finest, opting for a night in away from the pub to empty the buzz from his ears. Maybe, if he was lucky, Percy would pop over with some food.

Just as he settled onto the sofa in sweats, waiting patiently for his brother, a knock came from the back door leading out to the alley behind Wheezes.

"Oh, bloody hell, who is that," George grumbled. "Ron, I swear if you forgot your wand again…" He ambled across the living room/kitchenette, checking the time on his watch as he went. "What?" he demanded, opening the door wide enough for his head to peak through.

He was shocked to see a blushing brunette as opposed to his lanky brother.

"Oh, hi. Sorry to disturb you but I left my purse here earlier."

She shuffled in the cool night air, her loose cardigan, although thick, didn't seem to be doing much in keeping her warm. In all honesty, George was surprised he recognised her straight away.

"Yeah, sure. Come in. You, uh…remember where you left it?" he asked, opening the door wider to allow her in.

"Yeah. Last I saw…it was by…the…" she bent over and retrieved a silver purse from the floor beside the sofa nearest to the fireplace. "Floo," she finished.

An awkward silence surrounded them both, George observing his guest, drinking in everything his inebriated self glazed over while she stood rigidly, unsure of why she wasn't leaving now that she had her purse. He had never been in this position before – usually his guests had made sure to retrieve all their belongings before leaving.

The silence dragged on. It was George who broke it.

"Amy."

She quirked an eyebrow. "You remember my name."

"Of course I do," George frowned. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, I just assumed that you wouldn't have. Not after this morning."

It was true that George never before cared or bothered with remembering pesky details pertaining to girls, including their names, at first. But that was years ago, when he was off at the deep end.

It was at a family dinner at the Burrow when he had received a particularly nasty howler from a woman's brother yelling and cursing about how much of a disgrace he was; how awful his treatment to women was; and why he shouldn't pound George into oblivion for hurting his sister. The Burrow was left with a crackling electricity as all eyes turned to George's vacated seat, for he had apparated away as soon as the violent red letter shredded itself. Harry and Hermione went to diffuse the situation with the brother, Hermione vouching for George's usually impeccable conduct to women, but that he was stressed and clearly not in a good place.

His family had found him bawling on the dirt of Fred's grave cursing himself and pleading for forgiveness, when they finally agreed to an intervention. It was his father's sympathetic gaze and disappointed voice that brought him out of his depressed stupor. Not that his 'normal self' lasted long: after two months of being clean and sober – no distractions – he was back at it again, only this time he made sure to be more respectful.

But really, how respectful can one be when knowingly engaging in a one-night stand?

"How bad did my sister hex you?"

Amy scowled and turned her head away. "It took two hours for me to stop it."

Instinctively, George winced, knowing how bad a few minutes with the hex was. "I'm sorry about that." And he was. His stomach turned at the thought of having been so relieved earlier upon hearing the news of Ginny's success in removing her.

"It's fine, I guess I deserved it," she said, her eyes absorbing the surprising neatness of his living room, refusing to meet his gaze. The only pieces of clutter were parchment strewn on surfaces, a mug here and there and a stray sock.

"No. You didn't deserve it. That's stupid."

Something in his voice, perhaps the tone – stern and adamant – or the rough edge to his assurance caught her attention.

"Oh? Then why would she do it? I pursued you. It was me that overstayed my welcome. If you had wanted to see me you wouldn't have rushed off so fast, and it's my fault for ignoring that. Of course I deserved it."

She did not look apologetic in the least.

"And I'm still here!" she threw her arms up. "All I wanted to do was to retrieve my purse and what do I do? Keep on embarrassing myself. To none other than George bloody Weasley himself."

Amy made to leave but George caught her slim arm easily; it was surprisingly firm.

"Oi, don't be daft. I went along with it so it's just as much my fault as it is yours." George sighed. He really needed a drink. And his empty stomach was doing nothing for his mood. It was taking every ounce of energy for him to not clamp his hand over her mouth and chuck her out before he was finished. He had been lucky in getting weepers and walkers over the years, the girls who went through with it, cried a bit and then never bothered him again. Why did this one have to be different?

"But you were shit faced."

"Regardless of how with it I was I should not have acted so brashly. What my sister did was out of order."

Over the years at Hogwarts George liked to think that he and Fred had gathered an understanding of girls, what made them tick and what pissed them off. He had used this knowledge to make them swoon, and instead of having them follow him like mindless lovesick puppies until he broke them off, acted so that the girls pushed him away. No hard feelings left behind for either party, although some girls did eventually regret their decision to part with him – it was natural to be attracted to the physical regardless of the personality.

George let his hand trail down her arm and linked a long finger with hers.

"How 'bout I make it up to you?"

Amy lifted an eyebrow. "How?"

George could not believe he was doing this. "Dinner. Tomorrow?"_ Please say no, please say you have plans_, he chanted over and over again.

"Dinner? Tomorrow?" she looked dubious. "Why? You're not doing this because you pity me, are you? Because nor do I want, or need your pity."

Yes. "Hey," he tugged her finger. "I left the Leaky with you last night. Now, even though I was shitfaced, I still know when I see a pretty girl. And might I say, I have wonderful taste in women."

The words spilled from his mouth before he could filter them. Normally he would have made some sort of joke about whether she felt he was pitying her the previous night when they shared his bed, both times when she gasped beneath him and danced above him. But he wanted her to go. His headache was worse than ever, demanding his remedy of a drink to soothe the throbbing. And he could not deny that she was a pretty witch. No – gorgeous. What harm would another night do?

Amy was calculating his words and let slip a small smile. "Ok then. Dinner tomorrow."

"Great," George smiled.

"I should go now," she said, and walked over to the back door before turning around and addressing George again. "Where will we be going? I kind of need to know what to wear."

George fumbled around with his pockets; lifting up a finger to Amy (bear with, love), he ran back into the living room before returning with a quill in hand.

"Here," he handed it over to her and pushed his fist out, "Write down your address. I'll owl you the details."

Her gaze shifted between his hand and face, then neatly scripted her address onto the back of his hand. "I put down my work address as well – just in case I'm not home."

"Great," he said. George opened the door, "I'll see you tomorrow."

Amy nodded farewell with a smile matching George's, his wink broadening her upturned lips. He waited by the door minutes after her departure before slamming the door. He stretched out a loud groan, kicked a stray shoe across the room – _CRASH – _and pulled on his hair. Curses flew around his head as he scolded himself; he had always been a sucker for a pretty face.

"Why didn't she say no?"

"That is the last thing I would have ever imagined you saying."

George whipped around and was met with sky blue eyes.

"When did you get here?"

"In the middle of your imitation of a troll. Rather good, although I would not have expected anything less than perfect after hearing it my whole life," Percy shrugged. "Who is she?"

"Is that food?" George asked, eyeing the bag in his brother's hand. He could almost see the steam wafting around him, teasing his senses.

"Just some beef stew," Percy answered, making his way into the kitchen and grabbing the necessary utensils.

"It's a God send, that's what." George opened the boxes and inhaled the savoury aroma like a starved man.

"Skip out on lunch again?"

"Busy."

"Always is," Percy said.

"How's the missus and the little one?"

Ever since the birth of little Princess Victoire, George was mesmerised by children. Of course, owning a joke shop for children meant that he always held a soft spot for the little buggers, but the newest addition to the Weasley family stirred his heart in a way completely alien to anything he had felt before. Percy's first, Molly Weasley II, was the exact opposite to him. She was an incredibly behaved young toddler with a mischievous streak that could rival her uncles George and Fred.

He always loved hearing about the latest exploits of his nieces, but guilt always swept through him and hit him in the chest after realising he had missed them, every new development regardless how small or big. Whether it was a loose tooth, first use of accidental magic or a new chocolate frog card, he wanted to know.

An image surfaced of a little figure on his lap, giggling insanely as fingers played with his unkempt hair, legs swaying and a high voice struggling to formulate the correct words to regale the tale of turning her dad's hair to the exact same colour and shade of her mum's glittery new dress robes at Teddy's birthday party. In his other arm was a tiny baby, so small and fragile in his strong arm, listening to her cousin's story.

"Molly's great. Was thinking of bringing her down to the shop sometime soon – she starts giggling like mad at any noise; she cannot stand being in a quiet room anymore."

"Bring her around then! I can look after her for the day, so you don't have to worry about missing work and Audrey can have a relaxing day," George suggested. The forced smile on Percy's face, however, showed him it was a lost cause.

"I would, George, honestly. You know I would love nothing more than for Molly to see her uncle George again but –"

"Audrey doesn't trust me, I know," George finished, frowning into his butterbeer.

"No, George, of course she trust –"

"Leave it out, Perce. I can smell bullshit even if it is puffed over by that Seductive Siren perfume," George said, cleaning his bowl of beef stew and levitating it over to the sink where it dropped with a _thunk_.

"She does not use Seductive Siren…I think it's Mystique," Percy murmured, loud enough for George to hear. His spoon stopped halfway to his open mouth as he looked to George. "How do you know about Seductive Siren?"

"Katie was nagging me for weeks about it and then one day I found a bottle under the sofa." George laughed. "Got her to shut up for a day or two before she came around and hinted for a new broom, the greedy bint."

As he thought about it, he realised that encounter with his Hogwarts friend occurred months ago. What had stopped Katie from seeing him again? He had gotten used to her random weekly visits. And then there was guilt; his ghostly actions clouding over time without a second thought.

"So who were you talking to earlier? Other than yourself. By the way, you may want to that that is a sign of madness. Best to keep your one man conversations in your head to avoid someone informing St. Mungos."

"Just a girl," George replied absentmindedly, his thoughts busy constructing a letter to invite Katie, Lee and Oliver out for drinks some time.

"This late? They are usually gone by now. Or in there with you," he gestured to the bedroom with a tilt of his head.

George huffed. "She came back to get her purse." Percy sat still, unsatisfied with the vague response and stared until further information was relayed. George sighed, not even bothering to hide his aggravation. "And we're going out for dinner. Tomorrow."

"That is great." Percy frowned. "So…why were you yelling?"

Percy was never the brother to go to when a Weasley wanted advice or to unload on someone – he never had been. After all, he was pompous Percy, perfect prefect Percy. Even after returning with his family he never knew how to respond most times, shrugging off one sibling onto another despite his efforts. He was still learning. And for once, George knew he would understand exactly what he was feeling.

"I don't know if I'm ready, Perce. I felt horrible when she came back and started saying things, and looking at me all guarded. What if I screw up?"

The elder Weasley snorted. "You mean letting Ginny on her wasn't? Look, she agreed even after meeting the lunatic that we call a sister – do not tell her I said that. What more can go wrong? And it is not like you love her or anything, so should it matter so much? I was a mess when I first got together with Aud; I felt like I was betraying Fred and you. But you told me – what was it again? To get over it, grow some balls and stop looking for an excuse to sulk alone. Sulking with a warm body to hold is better than an empty pillow."

George spent much of the night pondering over his older brother's advice (and his own, in essence), glad he had decided to open up to him. Time in bed was spent tossing and turning and huffing and groaning as he thought of the millions of different scenarios that could take place, starting positively but then drowning into the deep where someone ends up dead or severely mutated. The last one George could not help but scoff at, the irony fulfilling his humour. He traced the skin of his missing ear lightly and wondered what could be worse. Not death. Death was a blissful sanctuary, a release of worldly pain and suffering.


	3. Backwards Baby Steps

**As you can see I am making the most of study leave by revising *cough* writing fanfiction *cough*. My first mock was Monday morning and my next one is Thursday afternoon so here's hoping I get to start on the next chapter of Begin Again tomorrow!**

**Thank you to all the follows and reviews.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p><span>Mending Broken Souls: Backwards Baby Steps<span>

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><p>He hated remembering the place he once considered his second home. Once upon a time, it would have been normal and almost nostalgic to think of it. Now, it was a nightmare, even if it was at the time of the calm before the storm.<p>

Mornings in the Great Hall were just as fantastic and magical as the nights, even without the suspended candles scintillating against the backdrop of the starry sky, a perfect replication of the outside. It was his and Fred's extensive playground for pranks and mayhem, and later on, roaming ground for pleasure and flirtation without the accusing glare of his mother watching over their shoulders. But that was later. It was only their third week in their first year and their reputation as mischief makers was solid amongst both professors and students.

They sat with Charlie and some of his friends, covertly granting students from all houses wedgies, their wands hidden under the table. Charlie, who would normally be laughing and encouraging his younger brothers, much to the chagrin of Percy, was busy twirling a girl's hair as she stared wistfully into his eyes. It was a usual occurrence; Charlie and his girls. Girls, plural, for he never could settle with just one.

His at the time girlfriend noticed his distraction from down the table, frowning as she slowly made her way to him. Charlie, always one to be engrossed by breasts, never saw her coming, never noticed his impending doom just seconds away from him.

Fortunately for him then, that his friend opposite him did notice. She coughed over the voices at the table and conspicuously kicked him under the table, successfully sobering him from his daze. Her hair was cropped short, an imitation of the boys around her, messy and dyed disgustingly blonde. She had been introduced to them as soon as they had been sorted, in Percy's year, but got on smashingly well with Charlie – not so well with Percy. But for the life of them they couldn't remember her name. She was nobody; unremarkable in every way.

Charlie, finally removing his eyes from the large breasts before him, saw his girlfriend. Never one to be deterred by raging women – he wouldn't dare include his mother in that statement – winked at his conquest and whispered in her ear. She left then, just like that. And his girlfriend reached him, seething, steaming from the ears. But with Charlie's soft words, she sobered, kissed him and sauntered away, leaving the boys to their breakfast.

"How did you do that?" Fred asked disappointedly; he had been wanting to see some action to start his day.

"What did you say to them?" George asked, equally dissatisfied.

"Told them I had plans for them later, of course," Charlie replied, starting on his sausages.

"What – at the same time?"

"Your girlfriend looked like she wanted to kill Big Boobs!"

Charlie chuckled. "Now there's a thought, both at the same time." His friends guffawed and clapped him on the back. "Naw, Crystal's meeting me at night and Sophie's seeing me just after lunch."

"What are you going to do?" the twins asked.

For a moment, Charlie's face contorted into one of bewilderment, but then answered: "I'll be getting to know them better, what else?"

The twins shared a confused look. "Why would you want to get to know girls?"

"Boys, remember this: girls are a complex species of human," – Percy, sitting across from them, snorted into his tea – "you can't live with 'em, and you can't live without 'em. But they are mighty fine and helpful to be around once you get to know them."

The girl that looked more like a boy who had clued Charlie in on his girlfriend rolled her eyes and winked at the twins.

Later that same day, as the twins made their way back to the common room after unleashing dung bombs near Filch's office, a girl stumbled out of an alcove. It was Big Boobs, flustered and dishevelled and grinning insanely. Behind her, a more composed Charlie appeared. She snogged him then, in the middle of a corridor in front of his younger brothers. The twins shared a look of disgust and gagged loudly. After whispered words from Charlie, she stormed off, yelling out curses and something about wankers.

"Why would you do that? Her tongue was in your mouth!"

"I'm never getting to know girls ever!" Fred exclaimed.

"Better stay away from Angelina then, mate. She'll probably do that to you one day," George said, his eyes wide at the thought of his friend and brother sharing an intimate lip lock similar to the one they had just witnessed.

"Nutters, the lot of them."

The boys swore to never engage with girls. What could they possibly get out of swapping saliva? It was revolting. They would be able to taste that horrid mouth taste everyone has after long hours after cleaning their teeth from bacteria proliferating, not dissimilar to the dreaded morning breath. Or worse, they would be able to savour the aftertaste of whatever it was they had just eaten. That last thought came even more disturbing as cheese quiches had been growing in number for lunch.

Charlie squeezed in between them, slinging an arm around their shoulders.

"Boys, you shouldn't be so quick to disregard them altogether. Something good came out of that."

"What?" they chorused.

"She's done my Potions homework."

With a final clap on the back, Charlie pushed himself in front of them and entered the common room, completely oblivious to the adoring gazes from the younger girls.

Charlie never did desist from his playboy ways, not that his family heard otherwise anyway. His engagement with magical creatures left little room for commitment with women; he was far too focused on his dragons.

The years with the twins before graduating from Hogwarts were spent training them through his knowledge of girls, what they wanted to hear and what pleasured them. The boys grew out of their immature 'girls have troll germs' stance and found that having another hand to help with homework wasn't such a bad idea. After several failed attempts on their part of Weasley wooing, resulting in sickly rumours and poor homework – which the twins laughed off – they amended their older brother's methods. Eventually, they became the perfect gentlemen of Hogwarts (the term gentlemen only stretching so far to the Weasley twins), wanted by all female students. They treated their girls like liquid gold when they needed them, and then surreptitiously distanced themselves until the girls acquiesced to a break up, yet stayed on good terms with most.

But despite all this knowledge of the opposite sex, Charlie never once offered them tips on organising a date.

George could not recall a single date he had planned. Once, in school he had helped Katie with her boy troubles and had gone on a date with her. It was her who had dragged him through and around Hogsmeade, throwing items in his arms only to take them back gently, as if receiving a gift. What those items were, George had no clue; she snatched them so fast he didn't even think she knew.

So it was with no surprise that Ron instantly recognised George's distraction the second he walked into the store. Normally George's distractions worked to his benefit: his work would be his sole focus. This distraction was different, bordering on dangerous. Observing his brother in the early hours, Ron noticed George miscounting change for two young children, sending them off with handfuls of knuts and sickles, possibly even a galleon or two. Not too long after, George rounded off the number of Decoy Detonators to five when there had been far more than that, resulting in a cheeky customer consciously paying less and running out before he noticed.

It was a good thing George had chosen not to spend all morning in the experimentation room, Ron thought.

To say George was anxious for the impending date was an understatement. He knew he was being off despite his attempts of perfecting nonchalance, yet the bemused looks from Ron – Ron! Ron Weasley of all people! – told him he shouldn't have bothered. He was tempted to owl Charlie; find out if the older Weasley finally had some worthy wisdom to bestow.

What does one do for a date to a woman they have already bedded? Fred would know, Fred always knew. The late Weasley twin had been in this exact same situation, however he had had feelings for his girl – George did not.

At lunch Ron forced his brother to go out to eat with him. It was obvious in his every feature that he wanted to know what was bothering George so much.

They strolled leisurely through the large crowds in Diagon Alley to a small restaurant. They didn't make it past the local tramp cuddling with the three legged cat when Ron burst.

"What was that little brother? I couldn't quite hear you; sounds like you've swallowed a Fizzing Firewhiskey Drop."

Ron's ears burned red. "I said what's wrong with you today?"

"Nothing, just thinking about something," George shrugged. Aside from Percy, Ron was the second brother he would not think of confiding in. Sharing a secret with Ron was equivalent to printing it out in all magazines and newspapers. He would let it slip to Ginny who would tell…well, everyone.

"A new product?" Ron asked as they sat inside the mini restaurant. It was quiet compared to the Leaky Cauldron.

"No," George said. He couldn't lie about that, for whenever George had a new product in mind he would spend days working on it, not wasting his time on the shop floor, allowing his ideas to dissipate.

"Then what?"

"It's nothing. Now hurry up and order or I won't pay you for the rest of the week."

Ron scoffed, but obliged. He squirmed in his seat waiting for the food, itching to know George's secret. George, on the other hand, locked his eyes outside the window, staring blankly as his mind worried on his date. He didn't even notice his food on the table.

"Ok, this is not nothing. Come on, you can trust me!" Ron said, halfway through his fish and chips.

He was rewarded with a sardonic eyebrow lift. They stared for moments, George seemingly waiting for Ron to catch on. Ron, forever being labelled slow, did indeed catch on moments later, his face reddening.

"I said I was sorry, mate. It was only once."

George rolled his eyes; he was overly aware of his time in the red zone. It was a mistake, he realised, to trust Ron with information on his holiday in Spain for a night all those years ago. Not that he wanted to divulge it to his little brother, but he needed to explain to his employee his whereabouts for the hours he would miss. The invitation from the customer, an extravagant, voluptuous witch, was sinfully red and sparkly, inviting him to go out to the given address in Spain.

George did not normally go far and out for such things, but he had been desperate, but for what, he did not know. Perhaps, an adventure – that was what he had told himself. He was stuck in a routine and needed something to liven it up. That had seemed the perfect coincidence.

The portkey was successfully arranged within moments for the very next day. In Spain, the deepest blue of the sea effervesced by feathers of golden light at the beaches mesmerised him during the day, warming and colouring his pale skin and evolving his orange hair into a deep copper. He paid his thanks to the nearby wizard for his sun burn prevention cream (100% chance of tan! No redness, no peeling, no sun burn. BARGAIN BUY!). The open hotel just a stone's throw away that he considered moving into wrecked his blissful retreat as the furious face of his sister stood before him. She dragged him by his good ear to the Spanish Ministry where she had organised an emergency portkey – paid through George's pocket, she insisted – and returned to England.

"Doesn't matter now," George said. "Possibly missed out on the best sex of my life, but who cares."

Ron stared, horrified. "You got invited to Spain for _sex?_"

"I dunno, I think so."

"She didn't happen to tell you when she asked you?"

"Must've slipped her mind."

"George!" Ron exclaimed, ready to reprimand his brother. But his mouth simply hung open; he didn't know what to say.

"It doesn't matter now," George repeated.

Ron sighed. But he didn't let it drop for long. Back at the shop he would pester George whenever he thought he had his guard his down, hoping for the instinctive truthful answer. It never came.

"Ron, get the hell out, it's closing time," George yelled from across the store, holding the door open for the last customers.

Ron stepped up from behind the counter and crossed his arms. "No."

"Ron, get out."

"No."

"_Ron._"

"Yes?"

"Out."

"No."

"_Ron._"

"_George._"

The brothers stared from across the room. As soon as the last customer bid George goodbye, he pulled his wand out and aimed it at an unflinching Ron.

"Don't make me jinx you," he warned.

"Do you want to make me make Ginny worried by telling her you've gone to an illegal potion warehouse or will you buck up and tell me what the hell's wrong?"

George cursed his brother and lowered his wand. "Why are you determined to make my life hell?" he groaned. "Alright then, upstairs."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth Ron jumped up the stairs, forgetting to put up the safety wards and charms. After George did the incantations, he followed his brother.

"I have a date."

"A date?" Ron asked sceptically.

"Yes, a date."

"The fruit?"

"No you shit, with a girl."

"You're going on a proper date with a proper girl? Tonight?"

"Yes," George sighed.

Ron grinned. "Well, have fun."

For the first time in a long time, Ron left his brother speechless. George spluttered, and before he could say anything, Ron had apparated away.

"Bloody little cheeky git," he grumbled, walking to the shower.

Throughout the evening George thought up different things to do on their date. Ideas went out as fast as they came in. The Leaky Cauldron was out of the question – that was his place for contemplation (and conveniently his pickup hotspot). Perhaps they could go for drinks there, after though? Just a firewhiskey or two. But after what?

There was a knock at the back door. George, who had been lounging on his sofa nursing a butterbeer, yelled out, "Coming!" as he pulled on his old and rather tattered dragon skin boots.

Another knock.

"I said I'm bloody coming, stop getting your knickers in a bunch, stupid witch," he grumbled. His scowl was replaced by a smile as he opened the door, the swift change aching his face muscles.

"Amy," he greeted.

The brunette stood before him looked exactly as she had the previous day. Her wavy hair in sexy tousles, a form fitting dress, slight makeup emphasising her already striking cheekbones and cat eyes and an indifferent face.

"George," she said, allowing a hint of a smile to show.

"Would you care for a drink before we leave?" George asked, his mind in a flurry of anxiety as he thought up last minute plans.

"Could we just go? I have work in the morning," she said, frowning at her watch.

"Oh, yeah, sure. Let me just grab my jacket."

There was no need for a jacket, for as soon as they stepped outside the breeze blew warm summer air into their faces.

George led Amy down the stairs and stepped out of the back alley onto the main street. Ice cream, fish and chips, chocolates, everything his eyes flew over looked too trivial for a date – a mature date with a woman, not a girl.

"What have you planned?" Amy's voice hinted at her comprehension.

George, never one to be outsmarted, turned to her. "Ever eaten at a muggle place?"

Her fine eyebrow quirked. "No. Have you?"

"Of course, I wouldn't be taking you there otherwise, now, would I?"

She hesitantly took his proffered arm. George concentrated on Hermione's description of a restaurant she had forced Ron to, and with a twist, he apparated them away.

Stepping out the shadows, they saw a building. It was bright and Victorian with high floor to ceiling windows all around, giving a perfect view of people everywhere. Flowers sat in hanging baskets and in pots around the brick building, bringing colour to the otherwise dreary edifice.

"A pub?" Amy's face was screwed in a look of revulsion. "Your idea for a first date is a pub?"

Apparently, George hadn't thought hard enough on Hermione's words; his growling stomach seemed to have a greater influence on his apparition.

"The restaurant's not too far away, fear not. I thought a walk might be nice," George said. He had no idea where this so called restaurant was, and Amy's expression showed her disbelief as well. Nevertheless, she nodded her consent and allowed him to lead the way in silence.

The walk was short along the busy road in Covent Garden. George headed straight toward a wide building with cursive writing spelling out the French or Italian name on a white background with gold trimmings. The interior was just as magnificent as the outside: circular tables with a small vase of flowers and a glitter structure for centrepieces, red and white furniture with gold complements. The customers were dressed in fine garments; dresses and suits.

Stepping up to the counter, the thinly moustached man appraised George and Amy, set down his pen and clasped his hands.

"Good evening, sir. A reservation under the name…?"

Shit. George forgot Hermione mentioning the months wait for a reservation. It was not something that should have easily slipped his mind, the woman had raged on about it at every possible opportunity. He must have gotten so annoyed by hearing it he eventually tuned her out and completely forgot. Shit.

He covertly slipped his wand out of his pocket and up his sleeve.

"Yes, Weasley," George replied, leaning over the smooth polished counter to look into the book. With a flick of his wrist and a murmured incantation, his name emerged, replacing 'Whinstone'.

The man peered up at George, once again raking his eyes over George's attire.

"Of course, sir, right this way," he smiled, his overly white teeth momentarily blinding George as it reflected the lights bouncing off the marbled floor and tiled walls.

Their table was, fortunately, situated in a back corner. George thanked him and sat himself down. Amy smiled at him, expressing her thanks in foreign tongue and sat opposite George.

"The waiter should be here with the menus soon," she said, once again frowning at George. "You didn't make a reservation."

"Forgot," he replied, pocketing his wand again.

"You used magic in a room full of muggles," she said, her voice in a matter of fact tone instead of reprimanding.

George winked. "What they don't know won't hurt us."

Amy pressed her lips together – whether it was to muffle laughter or as a show of frustration was unknown – but said nothing.

A waiter came and handed them two leather bound menus. Eyes flying over the words made up of jumbled letters and signs that made no sense aroused a premature headache. They inspected their menus in silence, George attempting to decipher the code of whatever language it was written in. Amy read with no difficulty. He was tempted to ask her what she was ordering, the silence heavy with a tension unaccustomed to George, but he was sure she would sneer at him for his idiocy.

Once their orders had been taken (George pointing at the most expensive) the verbal silence overcame them once again until George grew restless.

"So where do you work?" he asked.

"Ministry," she replied.

"Oh. What department?" He could hazard a guess that she was one of _those_who followed protocol to the immediate dot.

"I started work in the Department of International Magical Cooperation but now I work in the Auror Office," she said, sipping on her wine.

Percy had started work in the Ministry in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. George's eyebrows lifted of their own accord. The woman before him, gorgeous, beautiful, easily mistaken for a model, an Auror? He couldn't fathom it.

"Wow, that's impressive. Why'd you change departments?" he asked, genuinely interested.

"Got bored."

George laughed, almost choking on his wine.

"The little lady _can_joke after all," he said, leaning back in his chair.

Amy smirked. "I don't recall being treated like a little lady the other night."

George grinned. "I must admit this new side of you is remarkable."

"What if I told you this isn't a new side?" she asked coyly, leaning forward on her elbows, allowing him a generous view of her assets, to which he took full advantage.

In just a few words, his night swiveled in a direction he had long forgotten, and he found himself looking forward to reacquainting himself with the next steps.

The waiter arrived, setting their plates before them. Steaming dishes of pasta and some sort of fish greeted them. Despite George not knowing what was in front of him, it looked appetising and far more appealing than his home cooked meals of toast and beans and chicken.

They dug into their meals in silence, quietly surveying one another. It was far too good for the start of a first date, George thought, slurping a strand of noodle from his fork, attracting scowls from their neighbouring customers and Amy. He shrugged goofily. Slow music, like the waves of an ocean accompanied with a siren's song hung in the air, setting the mood along with the yellow lights and candles. It was all too fancily romantic. George didn't know how he felt about it.

"So, your old job, is that where you learned to speak…whatever it was you spoke?"

"Italian. Yes, I learned some in Italy," she replied. "I was only there for three weeks but because I had to negotiate some things with the Italian Ministry it was mandatory I knew the language."

"What other languages do you know?"

"Some French, German, Arabic, Japanese, Swiss, Creole and Hindi."

His eyebrows shot up. "Impressive. But not once did you mention dear old English."

"I'm obviously speaking English. Are you too thick to want that in the list as well for future reference?" she asked, cocking her head to the side cutely.

"Of course," he grinned.

"Then add on English."

"What kind?"

"Excuse me?"

"What kind of English? American English, Australian English, English English…?"

Amy giggled into her almost empty flute. "English English."

"That's the best kind."

She shook her head, still smiling, and returned to her meal. George, however, was not finished with his questions.

"What house were you in back in Hogwarts?" He was about to include 'I don't recall ever having seen you' but thought it would be in his best interest if it were left out.

"Ravenclaw. And you were in mighty Gryffindor."

"So you knew me?"

Amy scoffed. "Everyone knew the Weasleys. But you would not have known me."

"And why is that?"

"I was always in the library, and if I am correct in my assumption, you hardly ever stepped foot in there."

"Such a Ravenclaw," he rolled his eyes.

"What a Gryffindor. Only you lot would dare wear something like that in a place like this."

George's eyes automatically dropped to his clothes: a simple shirt, his trousers with more stains on it than he would have liked and his dragon hide jacket. "Apologies for not dressing like a stuffy snob."

The couple at the table adjacent to theirs turned to face them, the balding man with jewels of sweat dotting his forehead scowling, his much younger partner sucking in her lips in obvious amusement.

"Like that guy!" George said, pointing to the man who was almost as red as the Hogwarts Express. His partner squeaked and gulped down her drink. Amy's eyes widened, her mouth open, ready to remedy the situation but gaped horrified.

George stared until the man cleared his throat and turned back around. He sent a wink to the younger woman, eliciting a blush. Amy none too gently kicked his shin, catching his attention.

"What was that?" she hissed.

"A joke."

"Was that really appropriate?"

"Always is," he replied, downing the last of his wine and then clapped his hands. "Dessert?"

"You are unbelievable," Amy shook her head.

"That a yes?"

"I cannot believe I'm doing this."

"That's definitely a yes."

"What are you in the mood for?" she asked, giving in to the smile.

If it had happened any faster George was sure he experienced time travel into the future. He had paid for the meal and dragged Amy out of the restaurant before she could voice her complaints on him paying. He knew she would complain; she had that face on (eyes squinted and face screwed) that meant his ears would pay dearly if he did not get her mind off it quickly.

They walked briskly down streets. George's Weasley twin senses were on overdrive, and looking across the road, he gravitated towards the shop with a bright sign, leaving Amy to follow at her own leisure.

The window displayed cakes and cookies of every variety possibly known. Pastries, and pies, and doughnuts. She followed George inside and stood beside him, reading the overhead list of ice creams.

"Hello," a man behind the counter greeted. "Eat in or take out?"

"Eat in," George answered.

"Take a seat, I'll bring you over a menu."

They sat at a table beside the window, watching the busy cars, the late night strollers and the colourful lights of London.

"This all looks amazing," Amy gasped, reading the menu.

"What you thinking of ordering?" George asked, his gaze fixed on the pictures in the book.

"I'm not much of a sweet tooth in all honesty," she offered a small smile, "But the red velvet cake looks good. You?"

Turning over the menu, he pointed to his choice and grinned. It was not long until their orders arrived, Amy's small plate holding a luscious slice of cake, and George's tall glass filled with multiple flavoured ice creams, sweets and topped with a wafer.

Dessert was eaten mostly in silence, noises of contentment and George gushing about his ice cream breaking it momentarily.

All too soon the night was over and the duo found themselves strolling down Diagon Alley, the music pounding in the distance filling in the silence.

An airy feeling was present in George, almost bubbly. He wanted to skip and jump and yell and sing in the most boisterous way possible, the only thing stopping him was Amy's deathly glare he was sure to meet if he did so. He felt high on life for the first time in a long time, this state as euphoric as time spent with a Patented Day Dream Charm. It was a feeling he had once been accustomed to feeling daily years in the past, but had long since forgotten in the realities of evil in the world.

He felt alive.

With the courage of Gryffindor, his hand clasped Amy's and his fingers locked between hers. It was a casual thing, he had to remind himself; just hand holding. He had done far more touching with others before. But it was an intimate moment for him. George never had been one to settle down with a girl for longer than a few weeks, and in that short time he would be half-hearted in the mundane actions of the relationship. He never understood the hysteria over holding hands amongst girls. But with his hand firmly held with hers, he saw a world exposed before him. A sensual world, with smells and sounds and touch overwhelming him in ways he never knew possible.

And it was over as fast as it had begun, seeing WWW just ahead of them.

"As much as I would love to accompany you back into your flat, I have work in the morning," Amy said before George could even think of an appropriate goodbye. She tilted her head up and kissed his slightly stubbly cheek, wincing at the feel of his prickly hairs on her soft lips.

It was bad of him to think, terrible, atrocious, but for a split second before her words promptly ended their night he pictured her under him, singing praises to Merlin above for blessing her with such inconceivable pleasure. It was an unwritten rule: no sex on the first date. But was that applicable in his situation? They had already engaged in fierce intercourse - several times, in fact. Her eyes were bright, softly shadowed by a hint of fatigue. George chanted: Baby steps. Backward baby steps.

"Would you like lunch tomorrow?"

"Sure. Leaky Cauldron?"

George nodded, and with a final wave, Amy apparated away, the aroma of her spicy perfume the only element of her presence lingering.

Twirling his wand in his hand, he whistled a tune and strolled down the Alley, arriving at the pub. He did not stay long, only consuming one butterbeer, and ignored all the stares, retreating back into the Alley where few others were taking a stroll home.

The tramp was sitting on the ground against a building on his way home. From between the scraggly strands of her dark hair curtaining her face her could see her eyes closed and her mouth slightly ajar, notifying him to her slumber. A soft squeak forced his gaze down, and he saw dull green eyes peeking out of her dirty jacket. The cat was slowly escaping from its enclosure, a feat made difficult and clumsy due to the lack of typical legs, and sat on her lap, staring up at George.

It was an odd thing, for George to pause in front of a homeless person. His charity work was limited to only involving large known charities. He had never stopped to think about the poor right in front of him. Laughter echoed around him from a group of drunk men just down the Alley.

He frowned at the scene before him and shuffled through his pockets. All he could find were some knuts and fewer sickles. Deeming them acceptable, he slowly bent over as to avoid scaring the cat, opened the bony hand of the girl and gently placed the coins in it.

"Oi! That yer girlfrien' mate?" one of the intoxicated men called, much closer to the pair. They stumbled and swayed on their feet, their eyes covered in a layer of drunken fog.

"She's an ugly bird, tha' one. A trrroll," another slurred.

The men laughed.

"Stupid whore," another man spat, his saliva dripping on the front of his robes.

George gritted his teeth; his hand was being squeezed tightly, frail fingers digging into his skin. The tramp's eyes were wide and alert, awoken from the commotion, flickering between George and the men. Her hold only tightened.

"How cute!" they chorused, and stumbled away making inappropriate grunts and sighs.

He was unable to move; her hand squeezed and tensed every time George squirmed.

"Let go!" he said, using his left hand to pull away at her marble fingers.

She mumbled inarticulately, her voice too fast and garbled to be distinguished.

"I said let go!"

His yell shocked her and her hand fell away. George stumbled back and almost tripped over the cat rubbing itself around his legs. Without thinking, he ran to Weasley Wizards Wheezes, the raucous laughter dying with every step.

He sighed loudly upon entering his flat and rubbed his face as if it would calm his drumming heart.

He did not even realise he had agreed to go to the Leaky Cauldron for his lunch date.


	4. Missing What is Right There

**Thank you for reviews/follows/favourites! The story will start picking up after here. **

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><p><span>Mending Broken Souls: Missing What is Right There<span>

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><p>The next day the shop was just as lively and colourful as usual, awash with golden streams of light seeming to emanate from George, repelling the grey warmth of the London summer. He grinned to a group of giggling young girls, whispering satisfyingly over their purchases. He skipped over to an elderly man struggling to escape from surrounding clusters of children, his walking stick waving threateningly. On any other day George would have formally scolded the man and the children, but he was humming a joyful tune and whirled the man away to a clear area, ignoring his protests, and returned to the counter.<p>

His delightful mood was contagious to everyone around Weasley Wizard Wheezes. Surrounding shoppers in Diagon Alley felt compelled to browse the store, the aura attracting and spreading a warmth through them, filling them with an excited buzz.

"You're worrying me," Bill, the sibling visiting him, said, eyeing his younger brother suspiciously. He peered under the counter and stretched his arm behind his back. "What have you done?"

"William!" George cried. "I have done nothing. It is simply a wonderful morning leading to an equally, possibly even more, wonderful afternoon."

"What's happening this afternoon?"

George winked and tapped his nose in response. From the moment he woke his lunch date with Amy played in his mind, spreading a tingle through him that had nothing to do with the naked blonde dressing on her way out of his flat, he kept telling himself.

"Bloody sod," Bill muttered.

"How's Vicky?" George asked.

"Great," Bill chuckled, serving a boy no older than his daughter supervised by an elderly lady behind him. "She's really excited for Sunday lunch at mums, especially after Ron let loose that you're coming."

"I'm excited to see her too," George smiled, ignoring the building discomfort at the mention of lunch at the Burrow. "Hey, d'you think Fleur would mind if –"

"Yes, she would," Bill said forcefully. "The last time you gave Victoire a gift the house was swamped in glitter for days. And let's not forget the smell." His scarred face scrunched up horrifically.

A laugh broke out of George's lips. "She was the inspiration behind Glitter Gas, how could I not give her some?"

"But an entire crate mate? Do you know how long Fleur chewed me out for her little princess not being ladylike?"

"Fleur should be proud to have a daughter who can rival Hagrid."

"More like rival Fang," Bill muttered.

They watched the customers milling around the products for a while until Bill pulled out the Daily Prophet and perused the front page, waiting for someone to serve. His long hair was tied back in its usual style, longer than how it was in his younger years, now reaching past his shoulders. His multitude of earrings were visible on one ear and, despite the scars marring his face, he looked a handsome man.

"Oi, you been reading about this?" Bill asked, his eyes, the brown inherited from his mother, never leaving the article.

"I don't read the Prophet," George said. The Daily Prophet that arrived at his flat in the morning had the same fate as all those prior: pygmy puff litter. He had no issue mentioning this his brother.

"I thought you would have known all about it, what with your target customers being children."

"If it was anything remotely important to me or the business someone would have mentioned it to me by now," George shrugged as a teenage boy approached the counter.

"I'm surprised Ron hasn't said anything."

As if alerted to his name being mentioned, the youngest Weasley son appeared from the back room.

"Done, sorted through the new boxes," Ron exhaled.

"Alphabetical order?" George asked.

"Yes," Ron sent a tired glare to George. "I don't see how you can fit all your potions in that cupboard."

"Ron, there are two other cupboards against the other wall."

"When did you get them?" Ron asked, furrowing his brows. "I didn't see them. I've been using the same cupboard for months."

"I got them the last time you complained, about eight months ago," George answered.

He flushed pink and shrugged, plopping himself down on a stool between his brothers.

"You heard about this?" Bill asked, holding the newspaper up for Ron to see.

He frowned, eyes flying over the article and nodded. "Harry mentioned something about it the other day."

George focused on the growing line of customers and gestured for Bill to start serving as Ron continued on about Harry's Auror work, most of which fell on deaf ears. Ron always spoke of Harry's job fondly, but never resentfully as was expected once he completed training and rejected the role, opting to help George in the shop instead; everyone thought he would have grown to begrudge his decision. It was one of those earth shattering moments, the clouds opening up to reveal the blue sky after a torrent of rainfall, an epiphany almost, where it was clear to all how thoughtful Ron could be when his temper took a back seat, leaving the Weasleys and Potters in awe of his generosity; it was no secret how desperate Ron was to be an Auror.

Once the line petered out somewhat the conversation turned to Quidditch as it normally did. Bill teased Ron about his still ongoing obsession with the Chudley Canons, recalling the numerous amount of underwear and paraphernalia he attempted to collect as a child. It was the type of sibling banter George remembered all too clearly from before the war, when it was he and Fred who teased and harassed and joked, the centres of attention and the objects of amusement. It was rare for him to act as he once used to daily now without an accomplice. Teddy and Vicky were wonderful to teach but they did not maintain the particular prowess or wit of that of his twin. They were too noisy, too clumsy and too slow. But he admired their own independent ways that differed so greatly to him. It was what made his pranking exploits unpredictable and exciting, the impulsiveness of their actions and outcomes. With Fred, he would always know what was to come; they were parallel and their thoughts ran together in an intertwined vine. They did not have to actually ponder what the other was doing, it was in their blood to simply know.

Bill lifted the sleeve of his WWW lime green robes and checked his watch. "Almost lunch."

When he looked back up George was halfway out the door already.

"Oi!"

"You can lock up for lunch!" he yelled over his cursing older brother and began his journey to the Leaky Cauldron, eager to run away from the direction his thoughts were headed.

The pub was slowly filling up with customers for the lunch rush hour, but George managed to snag a relatively clean table. He played with a stray toothpick as the noise in the pub grew, bending it this way and that until it snapped. He then loosened his robes, the humid heat from the summer and the warm bodies uncomfortable in the dark and enclosed space. There was no one he recognised in the pub.

Looking up after a while, he saw Ron and Bill pass the window and checked the time on his watch, noting it was eleven minutes after noon.

Amy arrived minutes later, squeezing through the large crowd until she reached his table. Despite her heavy breathing, her hair was immaculate in its bun and she looked the epitome of angelic in the desolate tavern, a princess in the dungeon.

"Hello George," she greeted, her voice velvety as she set her bag down and seated herself with a light huff. She pecked him softly on the cheek and marvelled in the smooth shaven skin.

"Hello."

"Sorry I'm late." Her smiled dropped and she looked beautifully frazzled for a moment. "I had a mountain of work to get through. I'm afraid I had to bring some here as well," she indicated to her bag, rolls of parchment peeking out over the top.

"Perks of having my own business – I can shove my work onto someone else."

She smiled tightly. "Have you ordered?"

"Not yet. What are you feeling?"

"Probably just some fish and chips."

George grinned and called over the barman, a boy graduated from Hogwarts a few years George's prior. As soon as he left after taking their orders they resumed conversation.

"So…Ravenclaw."

"Gryffindor," Amy quirked a flawless eyebrow.

"I can't believe for a second I don't remember seeing you." She did not seem to mind his admission.

"Maybe that was because I was not in your year." Seeing George's confused gaze she rolled her eyes and said: "I'll give you a clue, I was in the same year as another Weasley."

"Charlie," came George's immediate response.

Amy laughed. "No! He's years older."

"You're younger?" George asked, astounded; she looked too perfect.

"Should be an easy guess now, you only have two options."

"Ron?"

"Spot on."

"And I didn't see you at the Yule Ball? Rubbish!" George said.

"I definitely saw you," she said just as their food arrived. "I don't think anyone could have missed your dancing."

A grin danced on his lips as he remembered that night. He had taken his friend Alicia; they were the only two in their peer group to not have a date or anyone in mind to go with. She had looked wonderful in her red dress that accentuated her slim figure. The night was fun as the majority of students drank spiked drinks – courtesy of the twins, of course – allowing their inhibitions to drown in liquid courage and unleash the devils within. Alicia had engaged in his manic dancing for only a few songs before retreating elsewhere, leaving him to swap and change partners. He had danced for hours, jumping and twirling and flying across the Great Hall like a wild Hippogriff.

The details jumped out at him, the formation of the candles in a panoramic view of art, the ice sculptures, and the glimmering decorations on the trees, the food and the outfits. And amongst it all he could imagine Amy, graceful as a Queen in the blurred image his mind constructed; he could not even begin to picture the real beauty of her being that night.

"Who did you go with?" George asked, taking a large bite of his pie and mash.

"Connor Farrell."

"Foul Farrell?" George could not help but laugh. "You went with him to the ball!"

"Yes, and I had a lovely time," she held her head high as if she did not attend the momentous ball with the smelly geeky Ravenclaw. "He was the perfect gentleman."

"Were you his first kiss?"

"Yes, in fact, I was. I hardly need to ask what you got up to."

"What's that mean?"

"It went around the entire school." George looked confused. "You really don't know?"

"Don't know what?"

"You lost your virginity that night," Amy whispered, almost shocked.

George laughed. "Oh, that. Yeah, 'course I did."

Her face was fabulously bemused at his shamelessness and George had to wonder again whether she was carved out of gold by angels. That first night printed itself on the back of his eyelids and he smirked recalling the wicked things she did – moulded by angels, trained by the devil.

"So how was it, being in the same class as the Golden trio?" he asked, wiggling his eyebrows dramatically.

"Terrible. They were always disturbing one thing or another," Amy said.

"Ouch," George's hand flew to his chest. "Not even having Hermione made it better?"

It was gone almost as soon as it appeared, the curling of her lip and the low hiss. Perhaps the fish was too hot on her tongue. "She was just as bad as the other two. No offence."

"Take offence for them? Pfft, you're a laugh."

"Sorry."

"Typical Ravenclaw," George winked.

They conversed comfortably for a short while longer until it dissolved and they immersed themselves into their food, the gossips in the pub playing a gentle background tune. Amy took out a roll of parchment and scribbled over it, managing to write and eat simultaneously without dirtying her work. George ogled her for a moment, mesmerised by her perfection yet doubting her existence. Surely she could not be real.

"How was work?" Amy eventually asked, dropping her quill.

"Good," George drank from his tumbler. "My brother had the day off work today so he's helping out some. It helps loads when there's more people, especially during the rush hours."

"That's nice of him," she commented. "Where does he usually work?"

"Gringotts. He's a curse breaker."

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Impressive."

"Not as impressive as owning your own business," George winked, although Amy said nothing. "How was Auror work?"

"Busy. Mainly paperwork today, the others are out patrolling and planning on ways to find those missing kids," she said, finishing off her fish and focusing on the remaining chips on her plate.

"What missing kids?"

"You don't know?" her eyes widened. "It's been in the news for a long time now. There have been several cases of children just disappearing."

George frowned. "When did this start?"

"Shortly after the war."

Almost five years of disappearing, most likely kidnapped children and George was only hearing about it now? He could not comprehend it. He was acquainted to many of the children that entered WWW, how could he just overlook not seeing them again?

"Bloody hell," he murmured.

"It didn't start off as such a big case," Amy continued. "It was only one family at first, reported their son missing when they were out at a funfair so we just assumed he got lost. And he was. Then ever so slowly more reports started flying in; they had a gap of approximately two and four months between so there was never any real connection. Sometimes the kids were found, sometimes they were not. That's always how it has been with these kinds of incidents. The children's ages varied as well.

"Only recently was it discovered that there are certain hotspots where the children disappear. That, and the gap has been decreasing. Before it was months, maybe even one child every year, half a year. Now it is only weeks."

George took in this information with a hardened stomach, no longer empty and hungry for food. He wanted to hit himself over the head for being so ignorant. How had no one come to question him yet? He owned the most prestigious children's store in London, surely someone would have asked him whether he noticed anything. His earlier conversation with Bill entered his mind and he was consumed with momentary anger. His own brothers had not bothered to tell him.

Growing up in a family of nine where the majority were children George could not even begin to understand the pain and grief those families were going through. If any of his brothers or sister suddenly went missing he would be a mad mess. He would not leave it alone until they were found. He would do anything in his power to get them back. And yet some of these parents had waited years and still no news. Victoire's grin and Teddy's ever changing bright head of hair, what would he do without them? Or little Molly's slobbery kisses and gurgles? And they were not even his children.

It was painful to think, a dull knife stabbing over and over, what may have become of those young innocents. No one wanted to believe the probable reality, large lifeless eyes that had not seen enough wonders of the world. No, he would not dare think that.

"Well, that was as lovely a lunch as the Leaky could ever serve!" Amy said, unaware to George's mental suffering.

"When was the last missing child report?" George asked.

"Oh, about three days ago," Amy replied, rolling up her parchments again and organising them neatly in her bag.

He pondered over this and promised himself to keep a close eye on all his customers.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

George grinned at her worried gaze. "Absolutely spiffing. Although," he made a show of checking the time and smirked at Amy, leaning in over the small table until they were almost nose to nose. "I'm still rather a bit hungry."

The head tilt made it clear to George that she was sharing his thoughts. It was followed by a light brush of her calf against his leg. In no time they rushed out of the dingy pub and fled to the flat above WWW.

* * *

><p>When Bill and Ron returned from their lunch break they shared a worried look and ran up to the flat where a commotion of noise was breaking through the charms of the back room. They never made it, however, as when they reached the bottom of the stairs they could hear perfectly clearly the source of the noise.<p>

"I uh, think we should put up another charm and open up shop," Bill said, tugging lightly on his fang earring and gesturing for Ron to move.

They silently put up more charms and once they were certain no noise would enter the shop floor, switched the sign and took their spots behind the counter.

Ron, still bright red, cleared his throat, opened his mouth hesitantly, and then closed it again, repeating himself some more until murmuring, "Bloody hell."

Bill let out an embarrassed chuckle. "Sure are loud, aren't they?"

It was a rhetorical question, one Ron answered nonetheless. "Loud? You call that loud? It sounds like a Quidditch match up there between two beaters! I've never heard so much bloody grunting and moaning before. It's George! That was - That's George up there!"

His voice rose through his exclamation and Bill had to clamp his hand over his brother's mouth upon noticing two teenage girls watching them curiously.

Ron's eyes widened. "You don't think he's started again, do you?"

"Of course not, stop being a twat."

"Yeah, probably."

They served customers in silence until Bill stopped.

"Excuse me, sir?" a moody boy said. "My change?"

"Oh, sorry mate," Bill apologised, handing over a handful of sickles and then turned to Ron. "He said he was going to have a good afternoon earlier, it's not a random wench."

"Shh!" Ron said, shooing away a kid. "What else did he say?"

"Nothing. Y'know what he's like when we start to question him."

"Wait! He told me he had a date last night."

"What, with a girl?"

"Yes! A proper girl on a proper date."

Just then the back door slammed open, revealing a ruffled George. They watched him glide around the shop, peering over customers' shoulders and informing them of what a wonderful choice they made with their products. He fiddled with neatly arranged products and picked out a few pygmy puffs, placing them on a woman's head as he leaned his chin on his hands upon reaching the counter.

Bill and Ron arched their eyebrows at George, waiting for his next move. When all he did was let out a dreamy sigh, Bill said: "Must've been some shag."

"Oh, you have no bloody idea," George sang.

"'S it serious?"

"Probably. No more shags with Luna now. We've decided we're official, completely exclusive."

"You've been shagging Luna Lovegood?" Ron asked, looking half disgusted and curious.

George hopped on the counter. "Sometimes. She comes around when she wants to and we just…do stuff." He noticed the looks his brothers were giving him. "We don't always have sex!"

"Wow, Lovegood," Bill said before Ron opened his mouth. "That must be interesting."

"Oh, you have no bloody idea," George repeated, a goofy grin on his face as he recalled the early morning's events with the aforementioned Ravenclaw loon. Her random knocks had woken him up and she began her sensuous dance as soon as he allowed her entrance, instantly enticed.

"So, this new girl…"

"Amy."

"Right, Amy. She pretty?"

"Fucking gorgeous."

"Of course she would be, you're vain," Ron injected.

"Oi!" George yelled. "I am not."

Ron, with his infamous big mouth that was in desperate need of flood gates and a padlock, then ticked off all the previous encounters he had had with George's girls, describing their appearance as vividly as possible from the length of their hair to the colour of their nails.

"Wow," George said once Ron had finished. "Hermione must be chuffed you look at them all so thoroughly."

Ron huffed and flipped off his brother when no one was looking.

"Where did she go by the way?" Bill asked.

"Flooed to work."

"Where does she work?"

His mouth was ready to answer, eager, almost, to show off, but his mind quickly caught up. "I won't tell you that. You'll go and ask people and they'll tell you all about her."

"So she knows someone we know?" Ron asked, straightening up.

"Perhaps," George said.

"Just tell us."

"No. Sod off."

They bothered him for much of the afternoon and teased him as only brothers could, congratulating him lackadaisically and then boasting about their own partners (Ron not as animatedly – his life would be in terrible danger if Hermione were to find out). By the time all the customers had left George was dying to get to bed, his mind a mosaic of imprints for all his latest ideas draining his energy.

Bill lingered and waited for Ron to take his leave.

"You were serious about being exclusive, weren't you?" he asked.

"Yes Bill, I was," George sighed; he did not want to have this talk with his eldest brother. He would need a firewhiskey once they were done.

"Maybe you should bring her for Sunday lunch?"

"No."

"Perhaps another night then?" Bill suggested. "Slowly ease her into the family –"

"NO, because we've only started going out and I'm not introducing her to the mad house any time soon," George snapped, locking the door with a flourish of his wand. "You can Floo home."

Bill followed his brother up to the flat.

"George." George ignored him. "George," he tried again.

"What?"

Despite being stocky and fuller than his eldest brother George could not compare his physical strength to the tall boy, grudgingly turning around to face his brother when he gripped his shoulder.

"You need to start talking to us," Bill said with a wisdom alien to George. He had seen this look once before. "I know I'm not Fred, none of us are. But we are still your family and that means something. We'll always be here for you, regardless. I can't say I understand what you're feeling or what you need to help but I can try, that's what I'm here for. I won't go away if you stamp your feet and yell like a kid. I've seen you at your worst and from what it looks like this Amy is sorting you out. You're dancing in your shop again!" Bill laughed. "Whatever she's doing for you I appreciate it. I won't interfere if it'll damage you. But if it gets any more serious than what you're saying we have a right to meet her. Properly."

George shrugged his brother's hand off his shoulder and smiled. "Cheers, bro. I know you mean well. It's just…not everyone would be pleased."

Bill winced. That, he could understand. It was the one instant he knew exactly how his brother felt and what he expected, recalling introducing Fleur. But this time no wise words came, nothing he had not already told George before. He was not going to repeat himself with advice of patience and all the others that would be pleased, it was not what George wanted to hear.

And George was glad for his brother not saying all that was on his mind. This was his situation to deal with, no his family's.

With a final clap on the shoulder, Bill departed through the Floo, yelling out to his brother what was deemed an acceptable gift for his daughter. George could not help but chortle at the mention of either a silver dress or a fake wand fit for a princess. He loved Victoire and it broke his heart to think of her growing up, distancing herself from her extended family as was typical when children grew into their adolescent stages, and then into their own marriages and families. She was forever his innocent little prankster princess, and he would help to keep her safe from whatever was taking those children.


End file.
